I sometimes berate Evanston for being a one-horse town, but it turns out I’m just plain wrong–it’s actually a one-horse and one-cowboy town. You see, gentle reader, every once in a while I’m transported to the Wild West. There is a man in our office building who without fail dresses like a cowboy on a daily basis. He perennially mistakes our rather small lobby for the OfrickinK Corral, and as such passersby are frequently subjected to vile clouds of smoke.
The opportunities for fun and mischief would number in the thousands, if it weren’t for the potential six-shooter stored in his Stetson. Perhaps I could enact these scenarios on Friday, since “corporate casual” in Cowboyglish probably translates into “don’t bring your gun.” I can’t wait until Friday, however, so join me as I reckon a bit.
Scenario A: I present myself as a prodigal son dressed in, how do the French spell it, cowboy ‘hacooterments.
Outcome A: He hugs me. Then he challenges me to a quickdraw. Bang, I’m dead.
Scenario B: I “wrassle” him.
Outcome B: Bang, I’m dead. He hugs me.
Scenario C: I make some tumbleweed out of sandwich crumbs and green Easter grass. I give it to him as a peace offering.
Outcome C: He insults my tumbleweed, we trade angry words, gunfire. Turns out I slipped some green Easter grass into his cigarettes earlier, which he promptly inhaled. I win.
“I feel like we’ve had an English class together,” he offered.
“I feel like I dropped that English class,” I said.
So began my strange introduction to the Proprietor of this establishment, whom I had the good fortune of meeting at this week’s Game Night. It turns out we actually had two English classes together, the latter of which I dropped like an obese dance partner at a swing festival, but that’s beside the point.
What’s important is that the website demands a visit or two. Or ten. You see, gentle reader, the Proprietor’s weblog–“The Dish,” for those of you who remember–still stands as my favorite journal of all time, and NewtCase is the author’s latest creation. While I didn’t know 99% of the people mentioned in “The Dish,” I returned time and time again for the sharp-as-cheddar writing.
The website shamelessly bills itself as “a razzle-dazzle spectacle of the first order, one that explodes like a firecracker in the mind’s eye and makes you get down on your hands and knees and thank God that one day all those years ago you sat down with your Hooked on Phonics and learned how to read.” You be the judge. Read and eat.
The military base will have to wait, gentle reader, because hunger drove us mad yesterday–and straight to downtown Evanston. The restaurant of choice was Koi, a chic new addition to the Dining Capital’s list of eateries. The Brunch Critic, Carmen Sandiego, and I wandered into an evening full of serviceable food, fine conversation, and tasteful atmosphere.
Perhaps the word I’m searching for is “ambiance,” but since I don’t know what that means, I’ll just say that Koi was classier than Panda Express, maybe even two Panda Expresses pasted together. I mean, management saw fit to give its patrons chopstick rests that suspiciously resembled rocks, and Brunch Critic celebrated this by promptly dropping his rock into the tea.
One other thing I vividly recall, besides finding some bones in General Tao’s chicken, was how Carmen decoded the mysterious language bantered about by a few nearby Frenchmen. They were apparently making sweeping generalizations about the eating habits of Americans, but unbeknownst to them Carmen commands knowledge of eight languages, French included. To these gentlemen I say, “Oh, le shame!”
I’m starting a new paragraph, but that doesn’t mean my thoughts will be any more coherent. I’m not here to review the restaurant. Rather, I need to share with you an epiphany I had when I crunched on some chicken bones. I think the keyword here is expectation. When you settle down to enjoy some boneless chicken pieces, chomping down on bones is akin to a culinary bitchslap. It’s like General Tao went to Jimmy Dean’s farm, stole a chicken or two, forgot to cook them, and then proceeded to dip them in his signature sauce. The good General salutes you and says, “Here, bite.” And then he slaps you upside the head with his riding crop.
That said, I think there’s a market for uncooked chicken. You’ve already got sushi, right? Why not chickenshi? Vealshi? Spamshi? Artificial crabshi? There’s a real market for this shit, I’m telling you. Man, sometimes I’m so focused I scare myself. Boo.